To sleep, perchance to dream
by Ellie 5192
Summary: "Sharon Raydor is sleeping in his bed." - Prompt 179: Andy is surprised to find Sharon asleep in his bed after a long day at work. Pre-ship fluff.
1. To sleep, perchance to dream

_So, I found this prompt on the Mary Fic Fest 2014 page. It wasn't claimed at the time, and I found it after submission/claiming/writing/publishing was over. I reached out to see what was happening with the fic fest and if anybody minded if I stole one posthumously; I didn't hear back, so have taken the liberty of writing and posting anyway. Sorry if that ruffles anybody's feathers._

"_Prompt 179: Andy is surprised to find Sharon asleep in his bed after a long day at work"_

_Pre-ship/ship(ish) fluffiness. One-shot._

**To sleep, perchance to dream**

Throwing his tie over the back of the couch with a long sigh, Andy shrugs out of his jacket, rolling his neck with the motion. It's the 24 hour catch-a-serial-killer type days that truly remind him he's not twenty-five anymore. He's not even forty-five. Or fifty-five. Good lord.

With that thought he toes out of his shoes, right there in the living room. His obsessive compulsive need to keep it neat can wait until tomorrow, just this once. He looks around the room, bleary eyed and barely conscious, so very glad that Sykes – fresh faced and rested after being sent home – had driven him home. He's sure he wouldn't have made it in one piece in LA traffic if he'd had to get himself here.

Andy scrubs his hands over his face and then, the urge overtaking him, collects his things anyway and starts walking to his room. The lights are off, but it's almost sunrise (a bleak reminder of how long it's been since he slept) so the grey glow of dawn filters through the small two-bedroom house just enough that he can see. The place had seemed too big when he'd first bought it, just little old him; now Nicole frequently visits with the boys, and it's just the right size. And there's a spare room with a queen bed, if they ever need to have sleep-overs further down the road. If his relationship with his family ever gets good enough that he's trusted for overnight visits. The room isn't set up yet, but the furniture is on it's way, on piece at a time. It will happen.

Anyway, that's neither here nor there on this particular day. For now, sleep is on the agenda.

He opens his bedroom door with his foot, his jacket and tie in one hand, shoes in the other, and then stops. He is momentarily startled. The room is dark – it's the first thing he notices; even if the world is not yet awake, his curtains are drawn, and they are blackout curtains so the room is almost pitch black to his unadjusted eyes.

And the bed is occupied.

Not that he minds his bed being occupied, for sure, it is wonderful. But this is… it's not… this is unexpected. He approaches softly, just close enough that he's standing by the end of the bed, peering at the face that's partially covered by the doona.

It nearly knocks him on his arse to identify the culprit. As if the hair poking out of the covers wasn't clue enough.

Sharon Raydor is sleeping in his bed.

He just barely stops himself from laughing.

He had sent her home hours ago – she'd been on first watch with Provenza, then he and Tao had taken over, then Sykes and Sanchez had come in to relieve everybody, though most of those shifts had overlapped and they were all collapsing under the weight of a never-ending manhunt. (All except Sykes; three hours at home sleeping and she was the Energiser bunny again, it was disconcerting).

Sharon more than most had been exhausted, on her twentieth hour awake; she had blatantly refused to leave with Provenza. She had ended up being there until Sanchez all but wrestled her to the elevator bank and shoved her inside. Andy told her to go home and sleep, and they would call her in when needed. Only half an hour later – she was still barely awake and getting out of her work suit when he called – the FBI had taken the case, connecting it to several murders in… Utah… or Arizona… somewhere. Might have been both. It didn't matter. The whole mess was not their problem anymore. They had been relieved, and Sharon had sighed, and then he had said into the phone with a smile _get some sleep_, and she had hummed her agreement.

And here she is. Sleeping in his bed.

When he told her to get some sleep, he had forgotten that would mean she'd be at his place.

Her ceiling was being repaired today due to a leak in the air conditioning unit on the condo roof. She'd bemoaned the fact the repairs would undoubtedly be loud and smelly; exactly the conditions that would prevent sleep anywhere on the top floor of her building. So he had told her to go to his place – _use the spare key you've got_ – and he would tip-toe when he got home. He had forgotten the spare room was not set up; that the mattress was still up against the wall, awaiting a new base. It didn't occur to him that she'd make herself _right_ at home.

He sighs again, silently.

Looking at the things in his hands he puts them on the chair in the corner, being very gentle so as not to rustle the fabric too loudly. He spares a glance at the bed. Not a peep. He can hear her breathing though; not so much a snore as just very deep and obviously exhausted. She is out cold. It's kind of adorable. He indulges himself and watches her for a moment – just the fuzz of her hair and tiny movement of blankets with her breath; in and out. He shakes himself out of it.

Tip-toeing into his bathroom, Andy closes the door gently, his hand against the jam to guide it silently closed. Picking up his old teeshirt and long pyjama pants from the tiled floor, he sniffs them once, and decides that despite them being abandoned so gracelessly some time yesterday, they are acceptable clothes to pass out in. Mentally he calculates how much effort it requires to flip down the spare mattress and make the bed with sheets and blankets and finding the spare pillows and matching pillowcases and… now he understands why Sharon chose his bed instead.

He sighs again, and presses his palm to the back of his neck, rolling it again. It's just that kind of day. He can feel the tension headache building the longer he stands; he needs sleep. Her undoes his belt buckle and lets his pants drop to the floor; slides out of his shirt and undershirt, and then tosses them all on top of the laundry hamper to be tomorrow's problem. He gets into the pyjamas, leaving on his socks for good measure. Looking at himself in the mirror, he looks every bit his age today; tired and drawn, and who has time for vanity when he's literally so tired his head hurts.

There's just nothing else for it.

He opens the bathroom door again and walks out. Just as he left her, Sharon is tucked on her side facing away from him, neatly taking up just one half of the queen bed. She even graciously left him enough doona to work with; not that he's cold, in fact with his long pyjama pants and socks he's just fine, but he likes sleeping under something heavy.

It feels very comforting to find himself standing here, even if she is asleep and therefore oblivious. He rolls his eyes at himself; he can ignore his stupid crush for the fifteen seconds it will take him to fall unconscious, surely.

Approaching the bed cautiously, he pulls back the cover on his side and gingerly – awkwardly, really, because how many years has it been since he snuck back into his own bed – he slides in next to her, careful not to rock the mattress too much or shuffle around for a comfortable position.

The moment he is horizontal he can't help but sigh in relief. His entire back releases its tension vertebra by vertebra; his head rejoices at the pillow beneath it. Immediately, he feels the tug of sleep. He spares a glance next to him, but she hasn't moved – she is still on her side facing away from him, her hair on the pillow, her breath deep and even.

He reaches out one finger to touch a stray lock of hair, but stops; pulls back. He's already breaking every single rule in the book by getting in this bed – no need to make her feel like they actually did anything wrong, and the last thing he wants to do is wake her. They really do deserve their rest. After all, they're both adults – very sleepy adults with only one quiet bed to share, and anyway it's a bed big enough for two. What's some sleeping among friends.

The shift of the doona when he moves his arm shows him just a sliver of the collar of what she's wearing, which turns out to be his academy teeshirt; he only has one teeshit in that shade of blue, and he can't help but grin at the thought that at some point today (or last night, depending on how people choose to classify 3am these days) Sharon went snooping through his wardrobe and is now wearing his clothes. He briefly – dangerously - ponders if she also found some pants in there, and then mentally slaps himself. Of course she did; she wouldn't be in his bed half naked, that's only in his dreams.

Still, he wonders how she did it; she was too tired to even consider any option besides _pass out in Andy's bed_, so did she just grab the easiest things she could find? Or was it more calculated, despite the fatigue – the academy teeshirt because they both attended and it's neutral; plain grey track pants because the draw string will keep them respectably above her hip bones when they wake up. Just over her head he can spot her watch and earrings on his side table; she cared enough to take off her jewellery. She doesn't seem the kind to not be deliberate. He decides that she was very specific in her choices, including falling asleep on one side of the bed (her side of the bed?).

He shakes his head and rolls his eyes at himself. He really is getting desperate and pathetic.

Not wanting to rock the mattress too much and disturb Sharon, he relaxes as he is; it's not his favourite, sleeping flat on his back, but he really is too tired for it to matter. Already, despite his tumultuous emotions, he is falling into dreamless sleep.

His last thought, before he is gone completely, is that he would love for Sharon to be there when he wakes up. Would love to see her fresh from sleep and bleary eyed – hair mussed and throat croaky. Intimate, maybe, and completely inappropriate, but he can't help himself. He's becoming more and more infatuated by the day, but so help him he will take full advantage of this opportunity while he can. It's only fair, given his dreams are apparently becoming reality, moment by moment.

After all, it's not every day he can share a bed with a beautiful woman. Might as well make the most of it.


	2. Ay, there's the rub

_Ask and ye shall receive. A follow-up chapter for all those who requested it. (Obviously this story takes place before season 3.5, when Sharon was still blissfully deluded and just before Rusty was officially hers. Poor dears.) And LilaJ, I didn't watch Seachange enough to make that connection, so it's a total accident! (although Max/Laura are adorbs). I also have a headcanon that Andy and Sharon share a love for old Westerns that are always on tv in the middle of the day._

_**Aye, there's the rub**_

The honk of a car horn just outside the window wakes her. She just barely manages to stop herself from humming and smacking her lips together to wake up; the obnoxious, stretchy, make-weird-grunty-noises kind of wake up that follows a good night's sleep that wasn't long enough. The blinds are still drawn; the room still relatively dark for late morning, the red numbers on the alarm clock read 10:28. Not the full eight hours, but in any case she has to be able to get to sleep tonight as well, when she finally gets home.

She hopes Rusty was okay without her – didn't worry too much – though she warned him she wouldn't be home. She didn't mention she would be at Andy's, but that's neither here nor there; it was 3am when she headed out of the office, she wasn't going to call him and wake him over it. And if his alarm hadn't woken him earlier, then the repairmen hammering on the roof at 8am certainly would have. Hopefully he made it to work okay, with some breakfast if she's lucky; she hates seeing him take off without eating something. In any case, he's old enough to go without her for a day and a half; there are plenty of leftovers in the fridge if he gets hungry.

But anyway, she wants to be able to sleep tonight – in her own bed – so she resolves not to fall back asleep now, comfortable though the bed is. Better to starve herself for the sake of her body clock. She also has to get into the office today and oversee any further paperwork on the case transfer to federal jurisdiction. It's perhaps a bit micro-managerial, and it's not like Taylor told her to come in after all the hours they worked the last two days, but she is the boss. A quick stop at the office can hardly be called _working_, surely.

Even without rolling over she can tell she's not alone in bed. Behind her, Andy's heavy breathing borders on a snore. When she turns, sure enough, there he is flat on his back, his mouth slightly hanging open; he looks like he passed out where he flopped on the bed, not caring about anything except sleeping. One of his legs is folded out of the blankets, his arm over his stomach.

She thinks he looks positively adorable.

It feels very strange to be waking up in his bed, she won't deny. It had seemed the reasonable thing to do last night, when the prospect of staying awake had seemed daunting and unattainable; when she had looked at the mess of a spare room and just shook her head in silent protest. Now, she feels awkward and out of place. They are not _together_; she's not sure what they are, but sharing a bed seems far more intimate than just friendship, even if they are both fully clothed. Colleagues don't share beds; it's just not done.

She takes a moment to enjoy this moment. It has been a long time since she woke up innocently next to a man; not as long as it's been since waking up with a casual lover – she was separated, not a saint – but to spend the night and wake up fully dressed, well rested, and comfortable in the same space as her bed mate despite the unease. It's nice. It's more than nice.

She silently sighs to herself, closing her eyes for just a moment, still somewhat exhausted but no longer imminently tired.

This entire situation is not normal.

Carefully, so as to not wake Andy, she lifts her covers and rolls gently out of bed, placing the covers back in her absence. She looks at Andy where he's sleeping. He doesn't stir or shift at all – it's no surprise; she was out cold when he got home at whatever ungodly hour he did, and no doubt he's only been asleep for a short time. She doesn't want to disturb him any more than necessary.

Picking up her work clothes from the neat pile she left on the floor with her handbag, grabs a hair tie from her purse, and tip-toes to the adjacent bathroom door, mindful of any creaks in the floorboards. She closes the door softly behind her, and then takes stock of the room. His suit is thrown haphazardly on top of the laundry hamper that looks full, but the rest of the room is neat; almost sparse. There is a shampoo and conditioner container on the shower hanger, a half-used soap block underneath them; a single toothbrush and tube of paste in a little holder on the vanity; she sneaks a look in his medicine cabinet for some moisturiser to use, but it's the usual fare. Shaving cream and razor, a partially empty pill bottle – presumably his blood pressure meds – some Band-Aids and a rolled up bandage. Nothing especially exciting. Nothing she can use to freshen up beyond a splash of water on her face.

She leaves it alone. It's not her place – as his friend or his boss – to go snooping, and she feels herself blush with embarrassment even as she turns away.

She looks at the shower and immediately decides against it. She doesn't know if the pipes will squeak and wake him, and anyway she needs to wash her hair and doesn't have any of her stuff here; she prefers to just shower at home if she can.

She gets out of Andy's clothes and folds them neatly, leaving them on top of his suit on the hamper. No point even having the conversation when he wakes, though he undoubtedly noticed her wearing them, she's sure. She gets back into her suit pants and shirt, leaving it untucked and tying her hair into a neat pony with the spare hair tie. She looks at herself in the mirror. Not great, but also not the worst – her makeup has faded, but a quick swipe under each of her eyes fixes the dark smudges, and the rest is passable.

She sighs to her reflection. Who is she trying to impress anyway.

She walks out into the bedroom again to grab her bag and trench coat from the floor next to her side of the bed. Andy snores softly on, and she smiles at him.

She steps out of the room and gently closes the door behind her, and then fishes her phone out of her bag where she threw it there on silent. Probably not the best show of initiative, going radio silent, but she was honestly exhausted. Seeing a text from Taylor she swipes it open and reads, rolling her eyes, the time stamp reading just after 9am.

_Don't come in today unless you get a call from dispatch. RT_

She doesn't delude herself that Taylor sent it out of the kindness of his heart; he just wants to balance out the horrendous overtime he has to pay for the latest case. Still, it's nice to get the actual order to stay home for the day unless expressly needed. She practically skips to the front door – her shoes are waiting next to Andy's runners, and she's not sure what the shoe etiquette of his house is, so she just left them there. But then she stops suddenly; remembering. Her apartment is overrun with tradesmen; her little sanctuary not so tranquil, at least until the building manager kicks the workmen out at five. And the place is going to stink of plasterboard and fresh paint.

She sighs then, her arms sagging under the weight of her handbag and coat. She rolls her eyes a little towards the ceiling. Just perfect.

Spinning on the spot, she weighs up her options. She has her car, so it's not like she's stuck, but her house is busy and she's not allowed at work. She could go shopping, but frankly that thought turns her stomach; and besides, her hair still needs a wash; she doesn't want to be shopping while she feels grubby. She could go see a movie, but there's nothing on she wants to see – she and Andy saw the only picture she was interested in just last week after a quick bite at a Japanese place they both like. None of the other movies appeal to her this week.

Dropping the handbag and coat on the couch, and flicking off her shoes again on the floor next to it, she proceeds to the kitchen just as a pang of hunger goes through her. Might as well raid his cupboards for some breakfast if she's bound to stay here, she figures; he's sure to have something she will eat. Toast even, if nothing else.

Searching through his fridge, she spots her favourite yoghurt and smiles. She was recommending it to him just last week. He must have taken her word and bought it to try. Quickly checking he's not moving around, she takes a spoon from the drawer and steals three big mouthfuls right from the tub. What he doesn't know won't hurt him.

She takes out the bread and makes herself two slices of buttered toast, not caring to find anything else for the moment. She eats it nicely at his small wooden table, checking her emails on her phone as she goes. The battery is nearly dead – serves her right for not charging it over night – but Emily is confirming her break over the holidays (always so prepared, getting her calendar sorted), and Ricky might make it for Christmas which warms her heart. The rest of the emails consist of a new season subscription available for the theatre company, a utilities bill, and a set of rewards updates for Qdoba customers – Rusty had once put down her email for it and now she gets weekly spam, which is just great.

She smiles. All of her children are in her email inbox, in one form or another, and for just a second she feels overwhelmed with love for them. Rusty's adoption is almost ready to go ahead, and the anticipation that runs through her is thrilling. She still half expects him to pull back, but he had assured her he wanted it, so she takes his word for it.

Pressing the toast crumbs into the tip of her finger and licking them off, she picks up the plate and walks it back to the kitchen, putting it in the half-full still-dirty dishwasher. She sees an iPhone charger on Andy's benchtop and plugs in her phone, effectively ridding herself of her only other distraction, unless she hangs next to it awkwardly at his kitchen bench. She entertains the idea for about half a second and then rolls her eyes and shakes her head. She's not a sullen teenager, she can go five minutes without staring at her phone to avoid the world.

Sharon sighs again, taking a look around as she walks back to the living room.

Andy's place is neat and relatively sparse, at least in terms of tidying or pottering around. Just to kill time she decides to go back to the kitchen and make tea, and taps her finger in an off-beat rhythm on the counter as she waits for the kettle to boil. She still feels in limbo; not quite domestic, but not uncomfortable either. Though, she figures she really should be. Uncomfortable, that is, even though she's not. She's barefoot in her subordinate's kitchen making tea after sharing his bed, and yet she is totally at ease in her skin, even as disquiet sits in her mind. She doesn't know what to make of all this.

Once the tea is done she returns to the living room and turns on the television. She mutes it immediately while channel surfing, but Andy doesn't have cable or satellite - he just gets Provenza to record his games for him these days, more content to spend the money on his grandsons - so her selections at 11am on a weekday are frighteningly sparce. To think, Hollywood runs this town and there's not a damn thing on. She settles on a John Wayne film - an older one, pre The Searchers - and allows herself the luxury of having nowhere to be and nothing to do. It's rare enough that she's at a loss.

She curls her feet up onto the couch and sips her tea slowly, letting her mind be at rest. She is so absorbed in _nothing _that it's twenty minutes into the next film before she snaps out of it; she immediately recognises it as Willy Wonka - the Gene Wilder version naturally – and chuckles to herself. She hasn't watched this in about fifteen years; Ricky went through a phase and put the whole family off it for life. Still, she leaves it on for white noise.

Sharon is so relaxed just lounging on his couch that she doesn't hear Andy walking into the room until he's rounding the other side and flopping by her feet. She lets out a small squeak of surprise when he lands right against her toes and he raises an amused eyebrow at her, which she ignores.

His hair is all mussed and he's still in the daggy old clothes he went to bed in; his eyes have black rings and bags, and frankly he looks a bit awful. But it's – she checks the clock on the stereo – just gone midday, so he can be forgiven for looking terrible. She doesn't hide that she's looking at him, but she also doesn't betray her nerves now that he's awake. Not just awake, but sitting next to her on the couch, knowing that she's made herself at home here. Then again, he chose to get in the bed with her; he knows she made herself at home long before she raided his fridge.

He grumbles and swipes his hand over his face, itching the last of sleep out of the corners of his eyes. He looks how she feels, to be truthful.

"Sorry there's no real food" he rasps, resting his head on the back of the couch and rolling it to look at her. She smiles lightly at him. He grins back, noting the messy pony and unkempt work attire. He thinks it suits her very well.

"It's no problem. I had toast… and tea" she adds, holding up her now-empty mug.

He nods, satisfied that she's at least eaten. It doesn't seem like either of them are going to mention the sleeping arrangements. She almost apologises for it, but doesn't; she didn't have much of a choice and she's not sorry. Likewise, he almost makes a comment about the spare room, but doesn't want to seem like he's unhappy with her. Bemused, or downright taken aback, but he didn't mind sharing last night, and waking to find himself alone had been a surprising disappointment.

"Your place still overrun?" he asks.

She hums and nods, a sour look on her face. "My super told me he would call if the works finished early, but I have a feeling they won't"

"Any case?"

"No. And Chief Taylor stopped just shy of ordering us to stay home today"

Andy rubs his hands together and theatrically stretches out, throwing his legs up on the coffee table and his arms behind his head. "Not gonna argue with the boss"

She just snorts at him and shakes her head, looking at the screen just in time to see Veruca fall down the egg shoot. Always so satisfying, if Sharon's allowed to say that.

"You wanna do anything today?" he asks.

She makes a noise, scrunching her nose on one side and bobbing her head. It's a fairly solid 'no', but he finds it adorable that she didn't just say 'thanks but next time'. She's so expressive, and he loves watching it.

"I feel..."

"Gross" he finishes for her. She nods. She's truly lamenting the lack of change of clothes, or even just her shampoo. At this stage she'd happily use Andy's two-in-one man blend, but then she doesn't have her hairdryer here, and god knows what would happen to her mop without containment.

He suddenly hauls himself from the couch and disappears to his room again. She watches him go without thought, curious but not concerned. He returns a moment later with the clothes she slept in, still neatly folded the way she left them, and he passes them to her.

"Go shower and throw these on, it'll make you feel more human" he says, smirking at her in a way that should feel presumptuous but curiously doesn't. She rolls her eyes at him, but she's been busted loitering at his place with no inclination to leave, so she might as well be comfortable while she's at it. For s brief moment she wonders what she is going to do about her dirty underwear. She could wash them in the sink, but damned if she's going to leave them somewhere to dry again. The thought of getting clean just to put dirty pants back on is equally unappealing. Mentally she resigns herself to going commando until she gets home, which is something she'll be telling nobody.

Half way back to his bathroom she stops and turns. Andy is still watching her walk away. "You sure you don't mind me... hanging around?" she asks, annoyed that she sounds like Rusty with her choice of words.

Andy just grins, a curious little expression on his face that she can't work out.

"There's a fresh toothbrush under the sink" he says, and turns back to the movie. She hesitates for just a second; just long enough for brief thoughts to flick through her mind, fleeting though they are. Without further preamble she continues to the bathroom, mentally cataloguing what ingredients he has in the fridge and whether he'd be up for making pasta for lunch. Lazy days call for carbs, and she has a feeling he wouldn't object.


End file.
